Kesha’s stirring rendition of “Praying” at the Grammys ignited a spark of bravery within me. As her heartfelt performance unfolded, I found myself typing my attacker’s name into Facebook while I dabbed my tears away. Suddenly, I was confronted with his face, the face of the man who had hurt me twenty-two years ago.
His profile picture revealed the same charming smile that deceived me two decades ago. Those twinkling eyes that once drew me in now seem to mock me, as if I can hear the smooth words that convinced me to share my number. Time has changed him; he’s older, with fuller cheeks, greying hair, and now married.
It has been twenty-two years since that fateful spring night when he assaulted me. Looking at him now, I wonder if he remembers that night as vividly as I do—or if he has buried it deep in his mind. I can recall every detail I wish I could erase.
Does he remember arriving at my dorm with roses in hand? Does he recall brushing my hair aside before that brief kiss as I climbed into his car? Had he already decided to hurt me? I wonder if he remembers taking me to his apartment, apologizing for the mess, and then sweeping me into his arms, declaring he wanted sex. I can still vividly feel his grip tightening when I said, “Not tonight.”
Does he recognize the scent of my perfume, just as I remember his cologne? Does it make him sick when he encounters it in a crowd, or in this age of Aziz Ansari, does he brush it off as “not remembering things the same way”? Does he feel any remorse for that night? Did he even consider the weight of his actions after he dropped me back at my dorm with a casual, “I’ll call you tomorrow?”
I wonder if he noticed my hesitation as I gathered my things, limping back to my room. Did he question whether he had crossed a line? I doubt it. I’m sure he carries no shame from that night, and I’m certain my name is long forgotten. I was just a fleeting moment, an object to conquer and dispose of.
In that darkened room, as he violated me, he didn’t think twice. The sounds of an 80s movie filled the background as my screen flickered with his face. I squirmed and begged, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. All I could do was hold on and hope it would soon end.
Years later, I see him again, smiling next to his wife in a holiday photo. I scan her face for signs of his past actions, but find none. We become masters at concealing our shame, our fears of being hurt again. We push down the panic that accompanies the memories, keeping our secrets from friends and family, even from our partners, as we redirect their touches to avoid the echoes of our trauma.
The world seems to turn a blind eye as a man who “grabs pussies” ascends to the highest office in the land. I find myself in tears, realizing that even those in power disregard our pain. Yet, hope flickers with every revelation of a predator being held accountable. I know I’m not alone in my struggle.
As I witness powerful figures face consequences, I feel a mix of anger and urgency. These men were caught, but what about those who walk among us undetected? When will my attacker face justice? When will I find the courage to be as brave as Kesha? I am immensely grateful for those friends who have spoken their truths. I aspire to join them, to share my story and begin to heal. But today is not that day; I’m not ready yet.
For now, I remain silent, living with my shame in isolation. I look at his photo on my phone, and whisper, “Me, too.” I hope somewhere he is reflecting on his actions, and I hope his soul is transforming.
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In summary, the journey of reclaiming one’s voice after trauma is deeply personal and complex. It’s about finding the strength to speak out and heal, just like Kesha has inspired many of us to do.
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